


for miles each way

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M, POV Second Person, gratuitous liverpool feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 10:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: Somewhere in the season Dejan falls in love.





	for miles each way

  


When you first came to Liverpool there’d been a sense of- anticipation. There always is, with each new signing, trepidation and excitement and then, inevitably, the feeling of being let down, as the signing proved incapable of single handedly dragging Liverpool to the top of the table. There had been anticipation enough when you came, ending of course, in the Europa League that first lonely year. You’ve no idea that it would hurt that much, letting them down.

  


-

 

The thing about Liverpool is, you never expected to fall in love.

  
  


-

 

You know about the struggle to belong. How can you not- and it stings still and probably always will - memories of the unfamiliar syllables tripping off your tongue, your face on fire, heart ragged - and surely, somehow, all that translated into _wanting to belong._ At some point it translated to _wanting to belong at Liverpool_.

 

When Mohamed arrives, the new bearer of hopes and dreams, arriving like some messiah the people had hoped for half in vain of him ever appearing, you’re briefly envious. That is, until you see his face, and you see that same sense of the struggle, ghosted over his cheerful smile. He’s been to a few clubs, he explains, the whole team crowded around him curiously. He’s played in the premier league before, for Chelsea. His mouth twists when he says that.

 

He sings something in Arabic for the initiation. No one understood a word and everyone cheered, you loudest of all, not really understanding why. Just that, maybe, you wanted him to succeed. You wanted him to be the one who could bear those dreams, like so many others before him couldn’t.

 

Mohamed scores in his first match against Watford. The expectation heightens, dizzying, and there’s a feeling that could only be whispered. You only feel a twist in your heart when you see his careful face, surveying the roaring kop.

 

For some reason, this makes you want to tell him that you see him, that you know how he feels, that the burden will be heavy here in Anfield. The stands are always expectant. There’s a space here that had been unfilled for so long it had become an ache, a hollow polished into stone.

 

Instead you ask him to play Call of Duty - _Not FIFA? He says, surprised, one perfect eyebrow arched in amusement_ \- and he agrees, easy, like you’ve known each other forever.

 

-

 

You take him out to Liverpool center, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“What are you doing?” you say into your phone, already pointing your keys at the car, swinging yourself into the seat.

“Uh,” he says, “I am- trying to fix my TV, it only has english shows.”

“Oh,” you say. “I’m coming to pick you up. I know someone who can get you international channels, don’t worry.”

Mohamed sounds nonplussed when he laughs, but he says yes. He says that a lot, now. You wonder if this is how he fits into teams, always agreeable, or if it’s just because you’re asking. You don’t know if it makes a difference, but somehow- somehow you want it to.

 

The little tour is a success even when you’re both stopped multiple times by excited fans, Mohamed always smiling, giving out autographs, you watch him get swarmed by little kids and feels only slightly envious. The truth is- maybe you’re more than a little envious. Defenders are, by an large, unglamorous. It probably didn’t help that you came to Liverpool with the price tag you did, and anyway, you’re an old guard now, the excitement and anticipation forgotten in years past.

 

“You know,” you joke, jostling him with an elbow, “We both scored on our debut.”

“What!” Mohamed says, eyes big. “You can score?”

You blink for a second and feels slightly wounded, but he’s actually laughing now, and he puts an arm around you. He poses like that, grinning, waiting for people to snap pictures and they do, and you feel proud to have made him laugh, for a second all your envy forgotten.

  
  


-

  


Mohamed settles in so fast you’re surprised, needing almost no help from you though you’re eager to give it, for reasons you’re still not clear on. Perhaps he just seemed so comfortable, easy in his own skin and easy on the pitch too. He smiles so much - when you get him his coffee even though he prefers Costa over Starbucks, when he assists Sadio or Roberto or anyone else with a goal, when he’s playing table tennis with Alberto, when he’s picking up his lunch from the ladies in Melwood - the only time he doesn’t is when he scores.

 

Instead he stands there, all the way down the pitch from where you are, arms out and staring intensely at the fans going ballistic in the stands, as though he’s trying to impart something to them, a promise or maybe a challenge. Sometimes his mouth curves up just a little at the corners, but by then you’re close enough to fling an arm around him, then the both of you pulled into the team, a storm of red.

 

Then he always breaks free and goes to his knees and presses his forehead to the grass like that trampled, muddy ground was the only place he can really communicate his gratitude to God.

 

-

  
  
  


You know too, of course, that football is holy.

  
  


-

  


He shows no sign of stopping the whole autumn, all the way into winter. The second to last day of the year it is Leicester and your legs are really killing you, Vardy skipping through the defense and you feeling like the world’s slowest lumbering buffalo.

 

If anyone asked you later you’d be sure to tell them that you always knew Mohamed would score, because he hadn’t been here long but months is enough to establish somewhat of a pattern. And he does, pulling the whole team behind him like the bright shining fragments of a comet’s tail while he shone fiercely ahead. Liverpool- Liverpool winning on the second to last day of the year and when he scores the second you’re so grateful you could kiss him.

 

The thought flees as soon as it comes. It’s hard not to think things like that, you comfort yourself. How could anyone not? You see it on the faces of all the lads crowded around him, breathes clouding the frozen air, sees Liverpool and Mohamed and the future, waiting for you all at the turn of the new year.

  


-

  
  


You text:

 

_You should get more Starbucks because the barista knows me and you’ll get so much discount_

 

His reply comes back in seconds, your phone buzzing out of your hand.

 

_But Costa tastes a lot better :/ :P :P_

 

You’re aware you’re smiling, forces yourself to stop.

 

_Come over! I already beat your score on FIFA._

 

This time it takes a little longer. You wish you didn’t feel this anxious. You’re a grown man, and yet, waiting for him to text back and being confronted with your blatant flirtations-

 

_On my way!!_

 

And three flame emojis, two sunglass emojis, and inexplicably, a palm tree emoji.

 

This time when you smile you couldn’t make yourself stop.

  
  


-

  


The thing about Mohamed is, you never expected to-

  
  


-

  


He always takes pictures of you sleeping on planes, because you have travel fatigue but he’s into the inflight entertainment. You sit next to him more often than not, and the rest of the time with Virgil, whose eyebrows raise every time he sees the two of you as though he doesn’t want to get in the middle of it. Virgil is new, you think, and he shouldn’t get so huffy about having to sit next to you.

 

You don’t always share a hotel room when you play away, but it’s often enough. Mohamed is mostly quiet and a lot neater than you, falls asleep like clockwork when he turns the light off and his head hits the pillow, while you toss and turn on the bed for what feels like hours. You couldn’t help watching him, sometimes, just in the early light of the morning, squinting so it seems like you’re still asleep. He looks peaceful. You think he’d smile in his sleep but he doesn’t, and you miss his animation so you always wake him up. He smiled even when you dropped yourself on his bed and shook his shoulder, sleepy and half amused, half annoyed, turning over with a theatrical groan.

 

These are the little bits and pieces you pick up throughout the season, even when the goals started blurring together, Liverpool running and running and Mohamed and Sadio and Roberto the arrowhead pointing towards some bright future. All this and the nights where he’s sprawled on your sofa with his tongue between his teeth and eyebrows furrowed, hands clutching the controls and entirely too focused on whatever game you’ve made him play.

 

And then there are the nights out in Liverpool with the lads after a good game, Mohamed sipping a coke and everyone taking it in turns to throw an arm around him, as though he was a lucky charm, their very own shooting star. These times you feel like he wasn’t yours, despite all you’ve done, it seems, to make him so. He belonged, entirely too easily, to everyone.

 

You tell yourself it shouldn’t matter, that you are content with what you have. But you couldn’t be, because you are you, always barrelling forward for corners in the hope of scoring, always, in hope, always wanting.

  


-

  


And so you watch him shine, not loud but in his serene way as though the world quieted for him, and you bring him free coffee even though he brings his own most days. He still takes it, grinning at you, knocks your arms together. You still take him out to dinner in pretext of seeing the sights, still invite him over for video games.

 

Mohamed scores, and he keeps scoring, until no one could point to his performance as an aberration, some beginner’s luck, this renegade son, a failure at Chelsea come to prove himself worthy again. Instead the pundits changed their tune and Mohamed scores, keeps scoring, doing what he does best unselfishly, always with a smile, until they start talking about crowns and kings. Until the kop’s songs change and comparisons are made between all the giants that have passed through the premier league, as Mohamed breaks record after record.

 

“You should buy a bigger trophy cabinet,” you say, grinning at him in the locker room.

 

“I have a special room,” he says, smiling back at you. You wiggle your eyebrows and he laughs.

 

And you file away that laugh and keep it with you, and you’re surprised that you’ve not felt envy since that day so long ago when he put his arm around you, natural as anything.

  


-

  


Right in the middle of Mohamed winning everything, things take a downward turn. It’s the end of a season, the games coming fast and hard on top of games that have already came and went and left you all shaken and your legs feeling like they’d come apart if you got to your feet. And Mohamed, so steady, so bright and constant, finally lauded as he’s destined to be, seems lost. The second leg of the semifinal did a number on all of you, but especially Mohamed. He hadn’t been able to score.

 

For a moment, you see a familiar frustration on his face. Familiar because you know it, but unfamiliar too, because it was on his face. This wrenches your heart, if only for a second, but then you realise- the final. You’re all going to Kiev. Thirteen years for Liverpool, and you, for you, the first time ever.

 

Mohamed turns to look at you, something complicated making its way across his face, until he’s smiling, and you yell, something wordless but triumphant, and he laughs. You’re going to Kiev, everything red, your blood, your heart, and Mohamed laughing as he’s always meant to be.

  


-

 

But first there’s the league to deal with. Mohamed at the cusp of another record, but somehow this one eludes him. You watch Klopp’s face darken with every point the team throws away- Liverpool always making things hard for themselves, Liverpool always failing at the point where it matters most, Liverpool shine and glitter and yet nothing of substance underneath. They’re in danger of losing something that had seemed so within their grasp for the entire season.

 

You make Mohamed come over after Chelsea, now that the team finally has a whole week for a breather. He’s moody, but everyone is, bewildered even. Klopp waving his hands madly in training - _Will you lot play fucking football! -_ and then giving up and giving them the rest of the afternoon off.

 

Mohamed looks tired, slowly drinking seltzer water from a glass you poured for him. You remember you’d mocked him about it before, but he always laughs and evades your jokes. He probably likes the bubbles, you think, so madly fond of him. It almost makes you trip on your own carpet when you walk over.

 

He laughs so hard at this near escape, you flailing your arms and bent over dramatically, water splashing everywhere, that you steady yourself, walk over, and try to rub your wet t shirt over his face. It’s definitely childish but he’s laughing amid struggling to push you off so you keep at it.

 

You succeed but only barely, Mohamed yelling all the swear words he knows in english and arabic as he flailed. It’s your turn to laugh, now, still soaked, and flop down beside him. He looks at you, cryptic, not smiling except with his eyes, and you feel-

 

That’s the thing, you feel. And he reads this from you face like he reads the opposition defense, and you’re terrified, all of a sudden. You watch him and he’s so terribly calm when he raises a hand, so terribly sure of himself, his hand warm on your face, thumb grazing your chin.

 

And then he kisses you, careful, thoughtless, and you know this, like everything else he did, was exactly meant to be.  

  


-

  


It’s the last day of the league but it is not the last game, you’re going to Kiev but you need to beat Brighton first, such was the way football worked. And Mohamed scores, perfect as always, and you score, too, unexpected opening. You suppose that if you tried at every opportunity - always running up, always in hope - then maybe you will be rewarded, from time to time. When the ball goes in you run to the stands with your arms out, and Mohamed laughs, later, says _Explain why you’re copying my celebration_ and you say _how do you know it wasn’t mine first I just don’t score as much as you_.

 

Four nil in Anfield, Liverpool fourth in the table; you’ve planted another year’s seed of hope for Champions league but the work is not quite done.

 

But you still think, later, watching Mohamed slide into the passenger side of your car, holding his accolades and awards, smiling at you like he’s done since the very first day, that you’re ready for whatever comes, because you already have this.

 

Mohamed smiles and sets his golden boot on the dashboard and you laugh, put your foot down on the pedal, and roll open the windows so the wind will tousle his hair all the way home.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
